Retaliation
by Bamfderson
Summary: Santana shouldn't have moved in with Kurt after graduation. She should have known they'd drive each other crazy. It had been okay, until they'd started all this. How long could the two get away with pranking each other before someone crossed the line?


**A/N: I wrote something that isn't Kurtbastian! Although he's still in there, sorta- if you squint. Basically I can't get the idea of out my head of Kurt and Santana moving in together in New York next season and I just had to write it, if only to cheer myself up after the mess of the finale. Hope you like it!**

When Santana eventually whirls into the small recording studio, she's panting loudly and pulling the hair off the back of her neck, closing her eyes in relief that she's here, _safe_ and that she has a good few hours before she has to go home. Sighing, she saunters over to a table, slamming down two takeout coffee cups and then carefully placing the other one higher, where it can't be knocked. This third cup is to be treated like it's made of fucking gold because _Ronnie_ is such a little _bitch_ that she can't just drink her coffee like everyone else, no, she has to send Santana on run after run until there's exactly the right kind of syrup in her cup and if she dares drop it, or jolt it so that there's so much as a single drip on the outside of the cup, then she may as well kiss her job goodbye.

She's been working at the studio for months now, fetching coffee and taking notes, basically. It's easy work, when Ronnie isn't in, and every now and then she gets behind the microphone herself and sings for hours, her voice softer, deeper, better as it is logged into the computer and played back. Eventually, if she impresses the studio, they'll send on her demo to different agencies until someone signs her. She isn't stupid; she _knows_ that this place is her chance, if only she doesn't screw it up.

And of course, this would be the one thing that her future depends on, because Santana _does_ screw up. She remembers the first job she had in New York, just over a year ago when she was waitressing and was fired for tipping an entire tray of spaghetti over the head of one of the more handsy customers. And the job after that was in a tiny record store, where one of the customers had complained that they didn't have a Justin Bieber section and she'd- well, she'd gotten very loudly fired. She flicks her hair back over her shoulder, still remembering the way her boss in the record store had turned almost entirely red as he yelled at her, and picks up the first two coffees once she feels more steady on her feet. Pushing a door open with her elbow, she swings into a small room filled with expensive looking equipment and her hands tighten slightly on each cup.

'Hey, Steve- coffee.' Steve turns, his bald head shining in the bright overhead light as his fingers tap across computer keys and press lit buttons, and smiles when he notices her outstretched hand. Santana returns the smile and sets it down in front of him, walking along and placing the other cup next to Em, who is wearing a dark hoody pulled nearly over her face today, typing names and recording times frantically into a computer and stopping every now and then to twist one of the bars in her left ear. Santana hears a grunt of thanks from under the hood and rolls her eyes, figuring that's all she'll get from the pint-sized brunette.

'Where's mine?' Ah. Ronnie.

'I'll just get it.' Santana strides through the door, trying not to make it slam but failing miserably as she hears the clang behind her and winces. She picks up the third coffee, resisting the urge to spit in it and brings it back, pressing it into Ronnie's manicured hands.

'About time.' And Ronnie walks away, her bony legs disappearing around a corner and into the small office she has.

'Ignore her, she woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.'

'More like every morning.' Steve chuckles and Santana remembers why she likes him. It's surprising how little her snarky comments seem to affect him or Em, and that is the single reason that she has kept this job for so long. She sinks heavily into the chair next to him and pulls out some paper to take notes (because her computer still hasn't arrived, and it's been so long that Santana suspects Ronnie just likes to see her crack her knuckles in pain at the end of the day).

'Something bothering you, kid?' She looks up to see both Steve and Em looking at her, Em's hands still furiously working on the keyboard but her gaze fixed on Santana. Steve looks curious, and has clearly given up on doing any kind of work today; no one's due in to record, so there's not much for them to do. She remembers running out of her apartment this morning so fast she almost forgot to lock the door, and grimaces a little.

'You know how I had that little fight with the guy I live with last week?' They both nodded; Santana had almost burst the door down, her hair frizzy, her eyes wild, and had barked orders at them all day, barely speaking to anyone except to yell at them. Really, it was a good job that Ronnie hadn't been in.

'Well, I kind of… got him back.' She chewed her lip, regret coursing through her as she remembered what she had done. He had gone too far, sure, but she had gone further.

Living with Kurt Hummel was definitely not something she had expected in high school. She had assumed (like everyone else) that he and the Berry hobbit would skip off to Broadway together and live happily ever after, singing while they did the dishes and shit. But in senior year Rachel had found out she'd be skipping alone- she got into whatever school it was and Kurt hadn't, meaning that Rachel suddenly had a bright and beautiful future and Kurt needed to come up with a plan to stop his from become some kind of whirling black hole.

Santana, however, had it figured out by that point. She had narrowed her choices down to three apartments in New York, not too small, but still doable on her budget, and was already considering jobs and times to go view them. She was going to be famous, whatever happened, and she wouldn't need college to do it; she just needed her talent. So when graduation had rolled around and she found herself with nothing to do for the summer, she had been surprised to run into Kurt in Lima's resident music shop, Between the Sheets. She normally avoided the place like the plague (the weird tanned guy behind the counter always stared at her ass until she left) but she still hadn't bought the Adele album and was in desperate need of some decent vocals, thanks to Brittany's current obsession with 'Call Me Maybe'. She spotted him almost instantly, looking dejectedly at the Broadway section and hunched over in a way he hadn't been since the Junior Prom fiasco, and had wandered over, standing next to him and making stupid comments about the album covers until he had cracked a smile.

If anyone asked her what she had done then, she would have probably pled insanity.

She had gone to the Hummels, later that night, and asked to see Kurt. Finn looked confused, but then again that wasn't exactly new, so she ignored him and pushed her way up to Kurt's room, swaying a little as she had blurted out the words.

'Come with me.' Kurt had looked up from whatever he was writing and frowned at her.

'What?'

'To New York. I'm going. I'm getting an apartment. And I'm going to do this. And so are you. So come with me.'

And here they were, fourteen months later, living in New York and happy as they could be. Well, up until the events of this morning. Kurt had considered applying to NYADA again, but he had decided that he was better on his own, and Santana agreed. Rachel still showed up at their apartment every week or so, complaining about this class and that tutor and that they had put her- _Rachel Berry_- in the back of their last performance because "her facial expressions were distracting". Kurt and Santana had laughed for hours after she had gone, remembering days in the choir room and group performances where the club had dared each other to try to imitate her.

Living with Kurt was great, when she really thought about it. He could cook, he kept the apartment clean, he didn't hesitate to tell her when she looked ridiculous in something, and there was the added bonus of Blaine. Blaine, who was irritating and annoying and somehow endearing and sweet all at the same time. He showed up every month or so, and Santana would have complained except for the act that most of the time he showed up tugging a cheerful Brittany behind him. Brit had only admitted _after_ Santana had moved hours away that she had no idea how to work a train, and that she just assumed they'd let her on it because "trains are free right?" "And you can jump on and off the back and roll?" She had expected to not see her girlfriend until Christmas, and have to put up with Kurt and his singing Labrador of a boyfriend all on her own. But the first time Blaine had come to visit, complete with housewarming flowers (ugh) and a bottle of his mother's white wine (more like it), he had smiled widely and pulled Brittany into the room, saying that as soon as he knew he could come for the weekend, he had booked Brittany a ticket too and gone round to help her pack.

Santana could have kissed him.

She didn't though, of course. She instead leapt on the blonde and dragged her into her room, kissing her square on the mouth and breathing in the smell of lipsmackers and bubblegum and _Brittany_ until she felt dizzy. From that moment, she decided she liked Blaine, although she would never say it to his face.

But he might not like her too much, not if Kurt called him this morning. Santana glances at the clock, her mouth twisting as she notices that Kurt will be just out of the shower now. Which means he knows by now. Which means she's dead. She stares at her phone like it's the Devil itself, lurking ominously on the tabletop as she relays the story of her elaborate prank to Steve and Em. Steve is staring openmouthed, looking horrified, and Em has stopped typing, her hands hovering above the keyboard as she stares at the red streaks on Santana's hands, heavy dark fringe raising with her eyebrows. Then she begins to laugh. Santana and Steve both turn to look at her, shocked. In all the time they have worked here (and Steve has been here for years) they have never heard Em make a single cheerful noise. But this is laughter, full, loud laughter that bubbles from her chest and fills the room, causing Steve to quirk his lips into a smile with the pure joy of it. Santana stares, wondering what alternate universe she has fallen into, and half thinking she's about to wake up in Dr Howell's office in her junior year again.

Em's laughter, however, is quickly disturbed by Santana's cell phone ringing clearly and loudly. The room falls into silence as Santana stares at it like it's a crocodile ready to bite rather than a small chunk of technology.

'You better get it, San.' Steve sounds as wary as she is, eyeing the phone too. She sighs and picks it up, wandering into the entrance of the building and accepting the call.

'Hey Kurt.'

'_Santana what the FUCK-'_

'Now, I know you're angry, but there's really no need-'

'_I will kill you. KILL YOU you crazy bitc-'_

'You took my curling iron last week, it's not that different-'

'_Not that- NOT THAT DIFFERENT?'_

'It might wash out?'

'_It will not wash out, Lopez, and you know full well it won't! Otherwise you wouldn't have fucking DONE IT.'_

She cringes, the full force of his anger causing her phone to crackle noisily. He's even madder than she thought, and she's beginning to wonder if maybe she should flee the country.

'_I have an audition today, Santana, the most important audition of MY LIFE and if I lose it now because of YOU-'_

Oh _shit_. She'd forgotten about the audition. The extremely important, huge, for a brand new musical audition that Kurt had been excited about for weeks. The musical that was going to be done in entirely black and white.

Could people flee the world? Was that a thing?

'_-and they will never even FIND the rest of you, I swear, I am going to RIP-'_

Or the universe maybe?

Eventually she cuts off his call after quickly wishing him luck, ignoring his yells and walking back into the studio, her face paling and her hands shaking. Steve gives her a concerned look before turning back to try to do some work, and Em continues hers, a light giggle escaping every couple of minutes. Santana works in silence, her wrist cramping from writing, and prays for the clock to go slower. Kurt's audition would end long before she was home, and he would be there when she got back. Possibly with her things packed. Or with a knife. Or a chainsaw.

Eventually, however, she has to admit that it was time to go home. Steve gives her a quick hug before he leaves, whispering 'good luck with him' in her ear and fighting his smile. Em grunts at her sympathetically and then scurries out of the door, pushing her hands deep into the pocket of her hoody. Ronnie had gone home a couple of hours ago due to a 'migraine', which was more likely to be 'I need more shoes' than anything else, and so Santana is left to lock up. She does, and then walks slowly through the streets, figuring the longer she takes, the longer she has to live.

Eventually she reaches their apartment building, her shaking hands fitting the key into the lock and taking the elevator to the sixth floor. When she gets there she pushes open the door gently, noticing Kurt's leather shoes resting by the door and toeing her own off, wondering how far she can get on her tiptoes until-

'Santana, would you come in here a sec?' Kurt's voice floats through from the tiny living room, his tone deceptively calm. When she sees him she has to press her mouth together to stop the smile. He is in one of the huge sofas that his Dad insisted they take, legs crossed and arms sinking into the soft fabric at his sides. His face is, for now, calm, but she imagines that can't last long. He's worn entirely grey and white, mandatory clothing for his audition, where even some of the girls had been asked to dye their hair duller colors and to wear less makeup. He looks like a ghost, sitting in that black sofa, staring at her. He looks perfectly put together.

Except for his hair.

It sticks up all over the place, ruffled and hairsprayed and combed to perfection only to be ruined by his nervous hands running through it all day. Pieces of it are falling into his eyes, escaping the rest and clashing with the sky blue of his irises. His hair destroys the serene image of Kurt waiting for her in the chair, but it is not because of the messiness.

It is because it is a blinding, searing, fluorescent red.

When she squints she can see that the dye has stained the back of his neck a little, like her hands, and that she has missed a spot behind his left ear. Aside from that spot, she has managed to cover his entire head, and by putting it on an hour before he was due to wake up, it is the brightest color she has ever seen. It stands out in their relatively simple apartment, is shocking against the dark fabric of the sofa, and in contrast to his understated outfit, it looks ridiculous. She cringes a little at the thought of how Kurt is going to get her back. She didn't know there had been bleach in the dye, but there must have been; there's no way it could have gone that bright otherwise. She thought it would give his hair a gingery hue, perhaps like the sheen on Rachel's that she hated when the sun shone. Apparently she was wrong.

Still, even when fearful of retaliation, she couldn't help but notice that it wasn't _that_ bad. Kurt had just the right amount of crazy in him that he could just about pull it off, whereas if it were her…

Oh God, it was going to be her. She'd have to sleep with one eye open, tuck a knife under her pillow or something. She wouldn't put it past Kurt to paint her entirely green in her sleep and play the 'Wicked' soundtrack loudly all day. _Again_. It was time to apologize. And she'd have to make it good.

'Kurt, I-'

'I got the part.' He speaks bluntly, waiting a few seconds before his mouth curves into a smirk.

'What?'

'I got the part- the lead, actually.' He's fully smiling now, and Santana notices the bottle of cheap champagne balancing on a coaster on the small coffee table (thank _God_ for Seb's fake ID skills, there's no way she could survive living with Kurt if it weren't for wine). She smiles tentatively.

'Am I about to wake up chained to a pipe with only a saw and a tape player? Because really, Kurt, I didn't think-'

'Oh don't be so dramatic, San, you're worse than Rachel.' Her mouth drops open at this. Was she really off the hook? (Was she really worse than _Rachel_?)

'Well, congrats, I guess. What did they say about…?' She gestures to his head.

'Oh, the hair?' She nods, gulping. 'He loved it. Thought I was making some kind of unique comment on society and how it views people et cetera et cetera, and cast me as the lead because, and I quote: "You've got something all those other men out there don't have".'

'What was that?' She relaxes slightly now; it looks like, no matter how evil her intentions were, they worked out okay.

'Balls, apparently. I had the nerve to show up to an audition for a musical in black and white, where the sets, costumes, even the faces of the actors would be painted, with bright red hair. I was either brave or stupid. Or pranked by my evil roommate.'

'Technically I'm not your roommate. And you deserved it!' He rolls his eyes and looks at her again, almost fond except for the strange glint in his eyes.

'I'm not having this conversation right now.' He stands, walking toward his room and stopping to look over his shoulder.

'Get some wine glasses out, would you? I have to call my Dad. And everyone I've ever known. And Rachel, especially Rachel.'

'Sure thing.'

'Oh and Santana?' She stops, hallway to the kitchen and turning, wondering if this is the furious rant coming.

'Yeah?'

'I will get you back. And mark my words, it will not be pretty.' With this he pushes through his bedroom door, letting it swing shut behind him. Santana shivers.

Definitely tucking a knife under her pillow.


End file.
